


A Calamitous Proposal

by StarsAreMassive



Series: Tying the Knot [2]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Gallavich, Happily Ever After, M/M, Mexico, Post-Prison, they deserve to be happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-08-09 01:49:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16440743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarsAreMassive/pseuds/StarsAreMassive
Summary: After thwarting Mickey's attempt to propose, Ian gets a wonderful idea.But as usual for a Southsider, the best laid plans oft go awry.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For Bex90 who suggested this.   
> And for everyone who commented/kudos the last fic (my very first in the fandom). Wow. Just wow. Y'all are incredible.

It had taken a week for Ian to stop sulking after Mickey’s failed proposal. He’d ran, limbs flailing, after Mickey that night and tackled him to the bed. There was no doubt in Ian’s mind that a good and thorough fucking would snap his soon-to-be-fiance out of the ridiculous notion to take back his proposal. Yet afterwards, when they’d laid there gasping for air and sated and warm, Ian had turned to him with his dopiest smile and biggest heart eyes, and sighed deep and sunk even further into his pillow. Mickey grinned wide and brought his hand up to Ian’s face – Ian who had closed his eyes anticipating the gentle touch of Mickey’s hands – only to be slapped in the face twice quick, and watch Mickey roll over, and promptly fall asleep.

Even Ian had to grudgingly admit that he’d deserved that. What he was pretty sure he didn’t deserve though, was a stubborn prick of a boyfriend who acted like nothing had happened.

When he’d claimed his rights as best friend and complained to Mandy about the injustice of it all, she hadn’t a lick of sympathy for him either. After she’d smacked him on the forehead (and really, he was a masochist for taking up with these Milkoviches) she’d howled and laughed until she was nearly gagging.

“You’re such a fucking idiot,” she’d hiccupped eventually. “Why are you even surprised anymore?”

Ian kicked his legs where he lay on the floor. It wasn’t a tantrum. It  _wasn’t_.

“This isn’t just Mick being stubborn or giving me the silent treatment for eating the last pop tart –“ Mandy snorted into her cocktail. “- He’s actually refusing to marry me!”

She’d dutifully patted his head and indulged him as he pouted. “No, he’s not. He’s refusing to propose to you. Again. Big difference sweetie –  _hey!_ Ian, this is new on!”

He’d leapt to his feet and knocked her hand, sloshing the radioactive booze she’d been clutching all down her pale pink shirt.

“That’s it, Mandy! Holy shit you’re perfect. That’s  _it!_ ”

“Douchebag,” she muttered, stripping off her shirt and rushing to the kitchen sink to soak it under the faucet.

Ian’s mind was buzzing with ideas. How could he not have seen the obvious? It was staring him in the face but as usual, it took a Milkovich to get his head out of his ass. Of course Mick wasn’t going to propose to him. He was waiting for Ian to do the asking this time. And Ian refused to let him down.

“Oh god,” he muttered to himself. “I can’t – I have to get planning. Hey Mands! I gotta go! Love ya!”

Mandy wandered back into the living room, soaked shirt in hand to drape over the radiator, and heard the front door snap shut.

“Ian? Ian! The fuck just happened?”

* * *

It didn’t take long for Ian to decide he couldn’t waste another second. A quick glance at his watch told him Mickey would be finishing his end-of-shift inspection of the small fleet of boats he was responsible for. Once Mickey had finished his last trip of the day – usually just after sunset for the more romantically inclined tourists of Mexico – he personally saw to it that each and every boat was safe and good to go the next morning. He was supposed to delegate things like that – or so the older couple who owned the company swore at him often, and exasperated – but he never did. Hell, he was  _this_  close to convincing the immovable force that was Manuel to teach him how to fix the boats himself and all that other mechanical shit, too.

Ian was more and more proud of him every day.

Mandy didn’t exactly live close to the docks. Ian hit the ground running. His feet pounded the pavement, his lungs heaved with the hot, slick air of a Mexican evening. He pumped his legs as hard as he could – pushed himself harder and faster. He ran until the lights of the town were behind him and the glint of the sea was beckoning him. He ran until asphalt became sand. He ran and ran and didn’t stop until he saw Mickey’s little fleet all docked up for the night.

_Shit_. Ian gasped a lungful of air. His hands clutched at his knees and looked around, frantic.

He pivoted on his heel and dashed down the beach. He remembered the little bar Mick had told him about, where all the local fisherman got together to enjoy some drinks before dragging their tired bones home for the evening. A small group of regulars had watched as Mickey had stormed into their midst one evening after chasing down some poor schmuck who had tried to overcharge one of his staff for a few lengths of rope. He’d went in guns blazing (and thank god not literally because  _fuck_  going back to prison) and given it his irate, Southside best until the man was apologising and thrusting the cash back at Mickey and trying to get the hell out of dodge. Mickey had scoffed, put half the notes back in his pocket and stuffed the rest in the guy’s mouth, and stormed out again. After that, he’d promptly been recruited into their ranks and couldn’t walk past the bar without being dragged in for a few rounds of tequila.

Mickey pretended he hated it, worked out alternative routes home and everything, but he always came back spinning wild stories full of admiration for tough old bastards who took him in like one of their own.

Up ahead, the twinkly lights that adorned the bar came into view. Ian glimpsed Mickey between the bodies of other revellers. He stood in front of the bar, downing the last of a small glass of beer, grinning and waving off the chorus of  _adios_  thrown at him from all sides.

Ian was nearly tripping over his own feet trying to weave through the crowd. He cursed, throwing his hands up and diverted to the small access path that ran behind the bar. He had to jump gates and squeeze through gaps he’d given up at seventeen, but if he was quick enough –  _just_  quick enough – he’d catch Mickey the other side of the bar before he left the beach.

And whatever the fuck was more romantic that a proposal on the beach at night from a man who had just run across town for you? Exactly.  _Nothing_. That’s what.

The end of the bar was there. He could see it. He knew Mick was just ahead. A final burst of speed and his fingers brushed the wooden slats of the side wall of the bar and he hurtled himself around the corner. He threw his arms out to catch his lover, his soulmate. “Mi -!”

“ _Fuck!_ ”

Pain blossomed across his face and white sparked behind his eyes. Ian threw his hands over his nose and staggered backwards.

“Ah shit, Ian!” Mickey lurched forward and steadied him, hands fluttering all over Ian’s neck and shoulders.

Dazed, Ian stared at him. “You punched me!”

“Well yeah!” And Mickey had the gall to look angry with  _him_. “What the fuck were you thinking?”

“ _Me?!_ ”

“Did you not grow up on Southside? Who the fuck jumps out at somebody and doesn’t expect a busted lip? At the fuckin’ least.”

Ian’s brain had finally caught up with the fact that Mickey had punched him in the nose. His eyes watered and the threw Mickey his best wounded look and whined, plaintively. “Mick…”

Mickey’s face fell. “Ah fuck. C’mere.” He draped his arm over Ian’s shoulders and gently pried his fingers off his face. Mickey prodded around, fingers padding in the blood and gently testing the bridge for any breaks. Hips lips twitched like they did whenever he felt guilty, every time that Ian flinched.

“It’s not broken,” he proclaimed. “You can relax, firecrotch.” He dropped his hand to the base of Ian’s back and steered him forward. “let’s get you home and clean you up. I love that shirt on you, man. Don’t need you bleeding all over it.”

Ian huffed – or tried to but only ended up snuffing blood everywhere – and rolled his eyes.

Perhaps,  _perhaps_ , Ian was willing to admit he’d been a bit hasty. Next time he wouldn’t be so rash. Next time he’d make it to the actual proposal and he’d do it without any bloodshed whatsoever.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian bemoans his abysmal attempt to propose to his boyfriend over a bruised nose and orange juice.

Ian nursed his humiliation over a cold glass of fresh pressed orange juice. Across from him, Sebatian – Sebby for short – hid his poorly disguised glee behind a mojito. They’d met when Ian had ‘rescued’ his little sister from a whirlpool which was really more of a rock pool. Maria had waded in, with pigtails and a devil may care attitude, and quickly realised that the water was a couple of inches deeper than she had anticipated. She’d created merry hell wailing her heart out until Ian had sprung over the rocks and plucked her from the depths. Sebby had taken her from Ian’s arms (by force mind you because she was rather taken with her new hero), tanned face flushing red with embarrassment.

Ian hadn’t long been out of a depressive episode, but he’d been full-on ugly, belly laughing when he’d recounted the whole story to Mickey at home. Mickey had marvelled at the happy flush to Ian’s face, like he always did,  and encouraged him to make friends with the guy.

“Let me get this straight,” Sebby smirked over his glass. “After spectacularly shooting your boyfriend’s attempt at gaining your hand down in flames –“ Ian groaned and thumped his head on the table – “You take matters into your own hands and jump said boyfriend in the middle of the night –“

“It was 8.30 – latest!”

“- in the wee hours of the morning, only to be punched squarely in the face.”

Ian nodded, grim. “Yup.” 

“You, Ian Gallagher, are a spectacular shit show.”

Ian ran his hands through his hair and shook his head. “He’s never going to marry me.”

Seb ran a hand reassuringly over his arm. “of course he is. You two make me wanna vom’, you’re so perfect. Bust noses and all.”

Ian sat slumped and dejected, elbow on the table and hand cradling his chin. “How hard is it to get engaged for Christ’s sake.”

Sebby slammed his glass on the table and clasped Ian’s hand in his. “Stop moping. You’re being an idiot. Now,” he flicked his curly brown hair back and sat up straight. “I’m Mickey.”

“No.”

“Ian, play along!”

“You don’t have enough game in the eyebrow department.”

“Ian!”

“Okay! Jesus,” Ian surrendered, palms up. “You’re Mickey. So what?”

Sebby clutched at him again. “Propose to me.”

“Get lost!” Ian tried to pull his hands away but Sebby was surprisingly strong for an artisan candle maker ( yeah, _really_ ).

“No, come on. It’ll be fun. It’ll help. Pretend I’m Mickey. Work out what you want to say and it’ll help you focus. No more half-baked plans or broken bones, alright?”

Ian rolled his shoulders, worked out a kink. “ Okay. Okay. Here goes.”

He looked Sebby in the eyes, hazel and not that beautiful Milkovich sky blue, and took a breath.

“Mick –“

“ _Fuckin’ ay_!”

Ian threw his hands up and choked on a giggle. “Fuck _you_.”

Sebby cackled and clapped his hands in victory. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry! Go ahead. G’head.”

Ian sighed, pursed his lips and tried again. “Mick –“ a beat. “ - I have loved you since we were kids. All the crazy shit we’ve been through and I never stopped loving you. Not for a second.” Ian leaned in closer, clutched Sebby’s hand tighter. “When we’re together, it’s like nothing else in the world matters. You,” he paused, catching his breath, “took me completely by surprise.”

“Ian.”

Ian grinned as he remembered every step of falling in love with Mickey Milkovich.

“You are the most beautiful person I have ever known. Inside and out –“

“ _Ian!_ ”

“And I’m so happy that we finally have a chance to be together now.”

When he looked up, Sebby was almost whimpering, cowering down in his seat.

“Seb, what -?”

But a fierce harsh spit of sound came from over his shoulder.

“Enjoyin’ a private little chit chat, huh?”

Ian’s heart dropped into his stomach. His skin went clammy, his jaw slack, and he turned slowly, dread turning his body to lead.

And there he stood. Mikhailo Aleksandr Milkovich. Ukrainian American and native Southsider. Love of his life –

-and so absolutely furious Ian was pretty sure he could see him shaking from the force of it.

Suddenly Ian became all to aware of his current predicament. Here he sat, holding hands with an admittedly very attractive man, confessing his undying love over orange juice and mojitos.

Ian snatched his hand back like he’d been burned. “Oh no. _No_. No, no, no, no! Mick –“

Ian snapped to his feet, hands outstretched and approached Mick carefully, like a wild animal.

Mick’s voice was low and quiet. “You’re bitch better run.”

And thank God for Sebby’s good sense. He was already out of his seat, dragging his jacket on and throwing himself out the door.

“Mick it’s not what you think. Holy fuck – _no_. I know it looks bad. _Really_ bad. But me and Seb? That wasn’t –“

Mick held up his hands and Ian could have cried because that had never boded well in the past. Mickey took that final step and looked up at Ian, eyes hard and challenging and daring Ian to say another word.

Ian bit on his trembling lip to keep the plea on his tongue quiet. He waited for Mickey to say something, _anything_. But all he did was smirk, and Ian had seen it before.

_I’m sorry – what did you call me?_

_He gave me blue balls._

_\- Did he?_

Ian saw it coming before he could stop it. Mickey’s shin flew up and slammed in between his legs.

“ _Ungh. Fuh-ck!"_  Ian dropped like a stone onto his knees. Blinding pain rocked through his body and he clutched at his groin.

He coughed and choked back sobs with the pain. He saw Mickey stand over him, just making out a sneer through the blur of his tears. And he couldn’t do anything but watch as the older man turned on his heel and stalked right out the door.

It took a few abortive attempts and some help from a few kindly patrons for Ian to get to his feet. As soon as he could take a step without swallowing a mouthful of bile, he staggered out the café and desperately hobbled in the direction of home, hoping that’s where he’d find Mickey.

When he got there, he heard the yelling a full flight of stairs down. Only his love for that man gave him the courage to climb those last stairs and open their apartment door.

Mandy stood bewildered in their living room. She blinked owlishly at him as soon as he gingerly stepped through the door. “What the fuck did you do?!”

“Is that fucking Gallagher?!” Mickey stormed into view, ashtray in hand and threw it right at his head. Ian dove to the floor and took cover behind the arm of the couch as the glass burst in a shower of shards and splinters.”

“ _Jesus,_  Mickey!”

But Mickey wasn’t listening, and was coming up on him fast. Ian scrambled to keep the safety of the couch between them, side stepping and countering and generally keeping the fuck out of Mickey's way.

“You goddamn piece of shit! Fucking cheating on me?!”

“No!”

Mandy screeched. " _What?!”_

“I fucking saw you! Holding that son of a bitch’s hand and saying all that shit to him.”

“You’ve got it all wrong –“

“He fucking better have, Ian!”

“Get him the fuck away from me, Mandy. Before I shove my foot down his fucking throat.”

“Baby, _please!_ ”

But Mandy already had a hold of his arm and was dragging him from the room, none too gently.

“Move your ass,” she hissed in his ear as Mickey slammed the door behind them. Mandy marched them down two floors to her own apartment and shoved him through the front door.

“Now, you have some serious explaining to do. And I’d be fucking careful if I were you, Gallagher. If I don’t like what I hear, I’ll cut you and drop you in the middle of the fucking ocean.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No more games. Ian was going to end the day as an engaged man and nothing was going to get in his way. Or so he thought.

Mandy didn’t drop him in the ocean, but she did cut him. Or rather, her ring did where she punched him in the face.

Then she’d slapped a bag of frozen peas on it and let him ugly cry on her shoulder until he fell asleep to reassurances of, _“I got this. Don’t worry, ya fuckin’ moron.”_

In the end, he’d only had to suffer through Mandy’s lumpy as fuck sofa for two days. He’d come back from work to find his rucksack of clothes, meds and his toothbrush all packed and Mandy kicking him right back out the door.

“How – how?! He wouldn’t even look at me?”

Many had shrugged and said, “A pictures worth a thousand words, right?”

“What picture?”

“Funny what a well timed walk past a certain very straight man and his smokin’ hot girl will do, huh?”

Ian had swept her up in his arms and kissed her, hard and sloppy, before he slammed the door in her face and took the stairs to his apartment two at a time.

It hadn’t been perfect back at home. Mickey still slammed doors and cussed him out. He didn’t speak to Ian much more than necessary, but he’d finally been allowed back into the bedroom, and last night Ian had managed to spoon Mickey without getting a sharp heel to the shin. Which he was definitely counting as a victory.

In the morning, Mickey had given him that look, that you’re-a-fucking-idiot-but-you’re-my-idiot-and-I-guess-I-gotta-forgive-you-or-something _look_ , and pecked him softly on the mouth before heading down to the harbour. Ian watched the door close with a goofy grin on his face. What Mickey didn’t realise – his poor, oblivious Mickey – was that one sweet kiss had sealed the deal.

Today was the day.

He had the day off from the beach and the gym, and he sure as shit was going to put it to good use. Ian Gallagher was going to get engaged today. To Mickey Fucking Milkovich.  No more impulses. No more misunderstandings. He was going to plan this shit out perfectly, or what was perfect for them anyway. And fuck anyone who said Ian didn’t know his Mick better than he knew himself.

Ian wouldn’t say Mickey was a simple guy. If he was, they could have avoided a lot of the bullshit that had been shit all over their relationship in those early years. What Mickey was however, was a man of simply tastes.

* * *

 

  1. **Mickey loved cheap food.**



Ian pulled the laptop towards him and punched in the name of Mickey’s favourite restaurant. He flicked through the menu until he found his man’s regular – meat lover’s pizza with stuffed crust and a double order of buffalo wings – and ordered for delivery.

Which would have been perfect, if not for a flashing red notification popping up on the screen and telling him, _“We’re sorry. You can’t propose to your sweetheart’ with his favourite meal as we’re closed. Please try again on Tuesday.”_

Fuck Dominic’s Pizza. Bastards.

But Ian only got to despair for a moment until he remembered that he was a fully functioning adult who knew his way around a kitchen. He quickly googled a recipe for another one of Mick’s favourite dishes – a spicy sausage casserole type thing straight from the Ukraine – and ordered everything he needed. He didn’t doubt for a hot second that some disaster would befall him if he so much as stepped a toe out of that apartment.

* * *

 

  1. **Mickey loved his red hair.**



Ian preened in front of the bathroom mirror. He tried not to feel too smug, but it was pretty difficult when you were remembering – very vividly – all the times tattooed hand had gripped and pulled and petted at it.

That didn’t mean that Ian was immune to a bout of paranoia here or there, and greys had been his latest obsession. Standing there, he briefly tangled with the idea of doing a quick at home touch up with some dye, but Mick would kill him if he fucked it up. They was his luck had been going lately, he’d manage to turn it green or some shit.

He could trim it though. Ian ran his fingers carefully through the strands at the top of his head that flopped over to the side. Yeah, that he could do.

He flitted to the kitchen and rummaged around for the scissors – clunky old things, but they would have to do. Victorious he found them under some take-out menus and a rusty old fixed knife he really had to ask Mick about. He settled himself in front of the grubby bathroom mirror and carefully sorted through his hair until he’d got it sitting just so. He carefully aligned the scissors, poised over just a tiny lip of hair and,  _snip_.

Ian smiled as the copper strands fell into the sink. She set about trimming bits from the top, just little cut by little cut, swooshing it this way and that in between. A few more off round the side and he was admiring his handiwork. Mick did like something to hold onto so he was careful not to remove too much. All that was left was that one stubborn hair just off-centre of his forehead that never, ever sat right. He could straighten it for days and it wouldn’t flatten out, and he refused to have a fucking greaser curl if he left it _au naturel_. On Mickey it looked sexy, but on Ian, not so much.

Ian stared at it in the mirror. He was pretty sure it stared back. _Time to go motherfucker_.

He pulled it tight and leaned forward to get a good look at the roots and where to cut. He braced his elbow on the rim of the sink to keep it steady and raised the scissors, primed and ready to go.

Only, really, he should have wiped the sink down first. Ian felt his stomach bottom out as his elbow slipped and he lurched forward face first into the sink. He hit his head on the cold water faucet and then heard one, almighty _SNICK!_

Oh, _fuck_.

Ian reared back, away from his own hand still clutching the scissors and scrambled to see his refection in the mirror.

He thought for a second that _maybe_ it was a hallucination. Maybe he was imagining that _significantly larger_ clump of red hair sitting in the sink. Maybe he was manic. Please, please let him be manic.

Ian wasn’t sure what use a debilitating disease was if it couldn’t bail you out when you really needed it. Because sure as shit when he looked back at his reflection, The Hair was gone sure, but it had taken a whole bunch of its comrades with it.

Ian wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry, so he did a bit of both.

_Shit, Shit. Okay. I can fix this. Shit._

He dropped the scissors like they were on fire and kicked them across the bathroom floor, cursing them and all their ancestors off the while. He diligently – desperately – started fluffing his hair this way and that and tried to salvage what he could. If he swiped it all to the right, the gaping hole in his hairline wasn’t too noticeable. It would do for tonight, at least. He didn’t plan on having Mick in any kind of position where he could do a thorough inspection of anything that wasn’t a mouthful of pillow. Besides, he’d have to shave it off in a couple of weeks anyway. Mexican summers were a bitch.

* * *

 

  1. **Mickey loved the way he smelled.**



Which was mutual, definitely.

According to the nifty tracker app on his phone, Ian still had a half hour before the delivery guy arrived with everything he needed to woo Mickey, gastronomically speaking.

Which was the perfect amount of time for a good, hot, relaxing shower. He’d gotten a whiff of himself earlier and it wasn’t pretty. He could hardly expect Mick to be thoroughly impressed by his cooking skills if he had to smell _that_.

He set his ipod on its docking station and blasted his ‘Bathroom Fun’ playlist (which was a secret Mickey didn’t need to know about). He hopped around the bathroom, trying to peel his sweats over his ankles and waited for the water to warm up. As he danced around, a timely twirl – or untimely  depending on how you looked at it – got him a glimpse at something horrifying on his back.

“You’ve got me be fucking kidding me?!” Ian yelled to no one. “Is that a fucking zit?!”

In the slightly foggy mirror Ian could see there, on his shoulder, was an angry, purplish mound which proclaimed proudly, _‘Yes! Yes, I am!’_

Unfucking believable. Ian hadn’t had zits since high school. Mickey liked to say that puberty had hit Ian like a Mack Truck, and he wasn’t wrong. Ian had went straight from the gangly doe-eyed kid to the athletic man he was today with very little in between, thank fuck. And he wasn’t about to let some latent acne make a dick out of him now. He would do whatever he could, he would scrub that sucker raw and exfoliate for a week, but it would _not_ be ruining his night. Though, Mick was definitely getting it face down tonight.

Ian hopped into the shower and got himself all lathered up in his favourite soap head to toe. He shimmied under the spray just slightly so it was hitting his butt and lower back, and gave a deep, contented groan. The rest of their apartment might be a shit hole, but the one thing he and Mick had absolutely insisted on was a shower with decent water pressure. And they’d went the whole nine yards. It even had a massage setting. No compromises.

He shifted his weight and went to dive head first under the spray and get and squeaky clean. Clean enough to eat off of. Oh, yeah. Clean enough that Mick might do that thing he rarely did where he used his tongue just _so_ –

_Knockknockknock._

Ian stood, his ass till under the water, and nodded. The delivery guy. He was early. Of course he was. It wasn’t like their apartment was in such an awkward place to find that whenever their regular pizza guy was off-shift, their order always turned up thirty minutes late and cold. The one time those extra minutes could have been a blessing the fuckers were early. Ian threw himself out of the shower, soapy and barely remembering to grab a towel. He stomped over to the door and yanked it open, wet and furious, to find a gum-chewing, zit-ridden teenager nodding along to his headphones and thrusting a bag of groceries and a delivery receipt in his face.

Ian scoffed – impressively if he did say so himself though it was wasted on the teenager currently drowning in bass. Ian snatched the clipboard off him so he could check off his order.

Peppers. Check.

Chillies. Check.

Sausage.

Where was the sausage?

“The sausage is missing.”

The teen stared at him.

_“¿Por qué falta la salchicha?”_

Pimples shuffled and, thinking he was sneaky as all hell – flicked his eyes down to Ian’s junk which was hidden only behind the meagre, overused towel.

“You’re shitting me, right? You’re fucking with me right now?”

At least the little shit had the grace to blush. Right down to his – good _lord_ – sandals and socks. The kid scrubbed at his shaved head and made a show of examining the order sheet.

_“Lo siento. Se olvidaron de empacar. Puedo volver y traértelo si quieres.”_

“Incredible,” Ian muttered under his breath. “No. Not all at. I don’t want you to put yourself to any trouble. Of course I want the fucking sausage! _Sí por favour!_ ” He plastered on his biggest, fakest, snarkiest smile and slammed to door in the kid’s face.

He threw the rest of the food on the kitchen counter and pointedly ignored the soap flying everywhere. He stormed off to the shower, all thoughts of a luxurious soak wiped from his mind and intent on the quickest, prison-style wash down ever.

* * *

 

  1. **Mickey loved his body**



He’d picked his favourite forest green shirt – or rather Mickey’s favourite. It ran just the wrong side of too small and rode up wherever Ian did so much as roll his shoulders. It had been tucked away at the back of the closet and was in desperate need of a good ironing.

Ian fumbled with their rickety old ironing board, cursing and sucking on this thumb when it got jammed in the mechanism. But still, he smiled all the while as he remembered what a task it had been to get Mick to even agree to an ironing board.

They hadn’t said it out loud. It hadn’t been some late night promise to each other at lights out in the pen. But they knew they were leaving Chicago behind the first chance they got, neither wanting to tempt the poison that infected the city to fuck with them again.

Mickey had desperately wanted to show Ian Mexico. As soon as their probation was up, they’d went on their very first vacation. Mick had shown Ian where he’d been living before getting caught up with the cartel, and Ian had been thrown for a loop. He didn’t know what’d he’d expected – just a hotter south side maybe. Certainly nothing so…quaint. The town was quiet and sleepy. The houses all looked small but airy. And the _beach_.

Ian hadn’t ever seen a beach before, but it was the most beautiful fucking thing he’d ever seen. And really, if that hadn’t sealed the deal, Mickey’s smug, wide, blissful smile just because he’d gotten to share this with his man, would have.

So when they’d gotten back to Chicago they’d started making preparations. It had started with Spanish lessons, especially for Ian and Mickey couldn’t believe just how little they’d fucking helped. Then they were planning how they would make a living. Mickey could turn his hand to anything really but Ian had to be more careful. He needed something stable, both for his routine and cash coming through to door to buy his meds. Though Mickey had assured him they were much, much cheaper in Mexico. Ian gracefully didn’t acknowledge the explosive feeling in his chest when he thought about how Mickey would even know the cost of lithium and anti-psychotics in the country he’d taken refuge in.

Ian had been running one day, past the gym on the invisible border to north side that he was too dirt poor to join, and saw a flyer in the window recruiting new personal trainers. And, well, that had been that. The idea had stuck and Ian had become obsessed. It seemed like in no time he’d qualified, and he and Mickey had been in a good enough position to start looking for somewhere to rent, far out of the reach of the cartels of course, but definitely near a beach.

Neither of them had been willing to wait. They’d only packed the absolute essentials, loaded up the car and left Southside Chicago in the rearview.

Their new home was still a dump – a cheap apartment with flaking paint and rotten wood – but the people were smiling and friendly and you could smell the sea from their kitchen window.

When they’d unpacked their clothes, Ian had bitched at the creases and wrinkles and asked Mickey to find them an iron and board. The Milkovich – his Milkovich – had been surprisingly opposed to the idea.

_“The fuck we need all that for? We’ve barely got room to fuck in here as it is.”_

_“Because I’m not walking around Mexico looking like a fuckin’ hobo, Mick.”_

A grin and a tongue prodding at the side of full lips. _“Ain’t ever bothered you before, firerotch.”_

_“Stop being a stubborn bitch and just get it.”_

To his credit, mickey had held out for a good while before Ian had to bring out his tricks. It hadn’t taken long for a babbling Mickey to capitulate to whatever Ian wanted.

It had never been easy between easy between the two of them, even when it came to ironing boards. Didn’t mean it wasn’t perfect though.

* * *

 

  1. **Mickey loved their date nights in.**



Ian shook out the shirt, the worst of the creases all smoothed out, and hung it over the arm of the sofa. He still had a chilli tomato sauce to make, and only an idiot makes anything with tomato when wearing their date clothes.

He put in some headphones and his favourite gym playlist. He hopped and popped and rolled his hips as he chopped onions, deseeded peppers and finely sliced the garlic before throwing it all into the stock. Once he got the sauce thickening, he took some time to survey the scene.

The rented movies sat on the coffee table (’22 Jump Street’ because yes fucking _please,_ Channing Tatum). Mick’s favourite beer was chilling in the fridge, and Ian had his tightest, best clothes at the ready. Once the pain in the ass delivery guy came back with he sausage, Ian would have a feast for _all_ of Mickey’s senses.

But still, something felt missing. This was for him and Mickey. It was the moment they’d look back on for the rest of their lives. Everything had to be perfect, and that low hum from the cheap apartment lighting certainly wasn’t fucking perfect.

No way were shitty flickering bulbs ruining this for him.

On one of his first manic episodes after getting to Mexico, Ian had convinced himself someone as coming for them – the cartel, the policy, Terry – it changed every day. But he’d smashed every light in the house and spent a three digit figure on candles in an attempt to stay off the grid. Mickey had found him, thankfully, before he’d been able the light any of them and accidentally set shit on fire or something. He’d taken him to the doctors to get him balanced out, and Ian had been bitter as he always was before he started to get lucid, but as some kind of peace offering, Mickey hadn’t thrown out a single candle.

For the first time ever, Ian gave silent thanks for his fucked up brain and the shit it made him do as he emerged from cupboards and under the sink with armfuls of candles. He scattered them throughout the apartment, putting most of them in the kitchen and near the sofa where they’d spend most of the night. Though, he did make sure to leave a strategic trail of candles to line the path to the bedroom. Fuck subtle. He was trying to get engaged here.

He started lighting them one by one. With each new flicker, Ian could feel the whole evening falling into place. Sure Mick wasn’t a romantic, but he’d gotten a whole hell of a lot better at not fighting Ian when he tried to bring a little romance to the proceedings.

He was lighting the candle on the side table next to the sofa when it hit – the acrid smell of burning tomatoes, and red hot, smoking metal.

“Fucking Jesus!” Ian leapt into action, barely remembering to grab a towel to grab the pot with before he threw it into the sink.

“Sh- _it_. Fuck. Shit!” He hacked and coughed and turned the faucet on as hard as he could. He wildly fanned the smoke around his head, as he tried to get closer to the oven to turn off the hob. He pressed the towel tight against his nose and mouth – but it might as well have been a fucking tissue for all the good it did. Flipping the dial round to zero, Ian retched into the sink over the pot sizzling and spitting. He threw open the kitchen window and tried to gulp on some air but the smoke was still too thick.

He whirled around to make for the door. He could wait out this catastrophe in the hallway. He stumbled towards the living area and scrambled around for his keys when he saw it. His favourite green shirt hanging off the arm of the sofa with a lit candle underneath it, going up in flames.

Admittedly it took Ian’s brain a few moments to fully understand the clusterfuck that was unfolding in front of him, before he lunged for the shirt and threw it on the floor, desperately stomping out the flames.

And that’s when the smoke alarms went off, and a knocking started at the door.

* * *

You’d never hear Mickey Milkovich saying anything so fancy as he loved to feel the breeze on his face, or the village they now called home was so peaceful at night, or that the past week had been so unbelievably shitty that he couldn’t wait to get home to his boyfriend and hug the complete fuck out of him.

No, you’d never hear him say it. Out loud.

And yeah okay, cuddling wasn’t always at the top of the list of things Mickey wanted to do, but it had been a strange couple of weeks and he felt like he had a little bit of making up to do with a copper-topped, freckle-faced Gallagher.

He’d been more than a little embarrassed when Mandy had pointedly walked him past some fancy-ass café he wouldn’t be caught dead at, and chattered way too loudly _, “Oh isn’t that Ian’s friend Sebby? Is that his girlfriend? That must be his girlfriend. Ian’s told me so much about them Crazy in love, apparently. She’s pretty – isn’t she pretty, mick? Well, I mean, what the fuck would you know, but she’s really pretty.”_

Yeah. That bitch made sure he got the point real quick.

His own pride had meant it had taken him a few days before he let Gallagher crawl back into bed with him. Ian had even been so generous that he only gave him one 'B _itch, please'_ look before flipping him over and using those octopus limbs to spoon him all night long.

Mickey had been so relieved he’d nearly proposed all over again.

He grinned to himself and laughed under his breath, scrubbing a salty, calloused hand over his face as he remembered that night. Ian had been incensed when he’d taken back his proposal. It wasn’t that Mickey didn’t want to get married anymore. He’d just put so much effort into popping the big Q absolutely perfectly, that making Ian sweat a little sounded like a pretty fucking good idea.

Well, the next time Mickey thought something was a good idea, the universe was more than welcome to come right along and punch him in the face.

He fingered the velvet box in his jacket pocket. He’d been asking for it all to go wrong, really, because grand romantic gestures just weren’t them. The were hard and cursed all the way to church, sharp like knives and they fought dirty, So the moonlit cruise was out. He was going to waltz into the apartment, tell that tall ass fucker they were getting hitched, then own the hell outta that dick.

That’s exactly how shit was going to go down.

With that thought warming his gut, Mickey finally turned onto their street.

Up ahead he could see flashing lights and smelled smoke in the air. As he got closer, he saw a decent crowd out on the street in front of _his_ apartment building. They were all crowding around firetrucks

Without his permission, his feet picked up the pace and he was sprinting towards the crowd. If he heard _IanIanIanIan_ with every slap of his sneakers against the ground, well, that just made him run harder.

He threw himself right into the crowd and craned his neck, peering over heads and through gaps for that shock of red hair or Irish skin that stood out like a beacon anywhere around here.

“ _Aqui! Por aqui, Mickey!_ ”

Mrs Juarez was waving frantically at him, clutching her grandson so tight he aw the little dude flinch. Mickey squeezed through the bodies, but he quickly lost his patience at playing nice and started shoving people out of his way.

_“Señora juarez ¿Que esta pasando? ¿Estás bien?_

_“Hubo un incendio en tu apartamento!”_

“The fuck?”

“ _Tu marido_ – husband, Mickey, he –“

Mickey mowed her down. “Where is he?”

But Mrs Juarez was gone, wailing in incomprehensible Spanish, and Mickey had to go look for someone who might actually know what the fuck was going on. Not that there were many. Parents were wrangling over-excited kids in their pajamas. The elderly neighbours were grumbling about being out in the ‘cold’ (he’d like to see them survive an hour in a Southside winter), and for some bumfuck reason a delivery guy looking bewildered in the middle of it all clutching a shrink-wrapped  pack of sausage.

Yeah, he was going to skip right over that one. Off to the side, he could see an ambulance with a couple of paramedic laughing at a flailing patient who they were trying to wrap in a blanket,

Mickey’s heart jumped and his stomach felt like lead. He knew already, that was _his_ flailing patient.

“Gallagher!”

He took off towards the ambulance. Ian’s head popped over the shoulder of the paramedics and, Mickey was thrilled to see, he looked startled but mercifully unburnt.

“Mick!”

Mickey pushed an exasperated paramedic aside, who looked all too grateful for Mickey to take Ian off his hands. Mick grabbed Ian’s shoulders and checked him over, Ian’s gangly arms wrapped around his waist keeping him there.

“What the fuck, Ian!”

Ian shook his head, leaning against his chest and mumbled into his shirt.

“ _What?_ Mrs J. was saying you nearly burnt the fucking place down.”

There was a sad kind of chuckle from below Mick’s chin. “I just wanted it to be perfect.”

“What to be perfect?”

But Ian wasn’t listening. “Christ. It shouldn’t be so hard. People do it every fucking day.”

“Ay! Firecrotch.  I ain’t no fuckin’ mindreader. Use your damn words. What the fuck is going on?”

Ian finally looked up, rested his chin on mickey’s sternum, eyes glassy and defeated.

“I’m tryna fuckin’ marry you.”

Mickey cocked an eyebrow, raised one hand to thumb at his lip, and tried to hand the shit-eating grin he could feel threatening to come on. He shouldn’t find Gallagher looking so pathetic as adorable as he did – but fuck it. And the fact that Ian had decided to take it into his own hands to lock Mickey down, made his stomach do stupid ass things like flip-flops and shit.

He carded his fingers through Ian’s hair – he would ask about the shitty haircut later – and finally let that wolfish grin take over.

“That right?” Ian nodded morosely. “And that meant to you had to set shit on fire?”

Ian groaned and shoved his face deep into Mickey’s stomach. He laughed and pushed the redhead back and took a seat next to him. Ian gaped at the smoking building.

“This is all your fault, you know?” He said

“ _Ay!_ ” Mickey shoved him.

“If you hadn’t taken back your proposal the first time, we wouldn’t be,” he gestured around wildly, “ _here_.”

“Fuck you,” Mickey said affectionately.

Ian turned to look at him, all hopeful and desperate and wrapped in a shitty blanket with his uneven hair all over the place.

“Can – can we just be engaged now? Because I think if I try to propose to you again, I might get arrested.”

Mickey didn’t doubt it either. Milkoviches might have shitty luck, but Gallaghers courted catastrophes like tweakers lookin’ for a hit. He shoved his hand into his pocket and plucked out the ring box and threw it at the idiot he was about to spend the rest of his life with. Ian fumbled to catch it and nearly pitched right the fuck over trying not to drop it.

“Here,” Mick said. “Before you fuckin’ kill someone.”

But he’d barely finished speaking before Ian had shoved the ring on his finger. Mickey rolled his eyes to the heavens and, in a rare display of PDA, let his hands fall heavy onto Ian’s thighs and squeezed.

“ _Thank fuck_ ,” Ian breathed.

And then Mickey’s boundaries around PDA really didn’t matter, because he suddenly had a face full of Ian Gallagher. Ian Gallagher who didn’t give a shit that all their neighbours were surrounding them in various states of panic and confusion, because he was too busy crawling on top of Mickey, licking into his mouth, and trying to break a couple of laws perched in the back of an ambulance.

Mick pulled back gasping and Ian just moved to nuzzle his neck.

“Damn Gallagher. You’d think you’d been waitin’ for this or someth- _sunnuvabitch!_ Don’t pinch, dickbreath!”

“You got a lotta makin’ up to do, Milkovich.”

Mickey chuckled and tongued the corner of his mouth. “Oh yeah?”

“Mhmm,” Ian murmured into his neck. Mick shivered.

“Like what?”

“You can take me to Chicago for one.”

That put the breaks on real quick. “Chicago? What the fuck do you want in Chicago?”

He felt Ian grin. “We gotta tell the family, Mick.”

Ian clamped down and locked Mickey in his vice-like grip, as the older boy tried to shake him off.

“You sneaky motherfucker! Gimmie that fuckin’ ring. Use a goddamn phone, you piece of shit. Fuck off. I can’t believe I wanna marry your ass –“

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, excuse the awful Spanish. I am at the mercy of google translate.


End file.
